The Way We Grieve

Last night, a friend picked me up for a little ice cream cheer. It goes without saying that it is extremely hot here in the desert (and stays light out ridiculously late), so we close up our house, drawing the blinds and battening down the hatches to ward off the sun.

When my friend came to the door, my immediate reaction was to explain that the house was dark because it was hot out. I felt overwhelmingly self-conscious and aware of what our grief might look like to others. I felt the need to show that we are ok and to protect others from any darkness that might be lurking. These days I feel so incredibly vulnerable--from exhaustion, from the physical act of losing the baby and of course, from crying so much.

Explaining away the darkness made me think of how rarely we let other people see our uglies. I was surprised at how afraid I was that people would run from a situation that is hard to talk about. I am scared to be isolated within it and crave the light, seek out the sun and insist on finding the strength in others and their love.

Thankfully we are taking time to really feel the depths of this. I know we need to welcome the dark days and bad feelings to get through it.

So, despite the tears, we laugh.
Despite the sinking waves of grief, we float.

Despite the fact that every other frappin person seems to be pregnant, we snuggle our friend's babies and share in their exciting news.

And mostly, despite the darkness we can still feel the light.